


Lovesick

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gore but it's imaginary because this is a Pennywise-free zone, HIV/AIDS Crisis, High School, Homophobia (internalised and external), Hypochondria and illness, M/M, Slurs, This makes it sound so depressing there are jokes I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21678640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: Slugs and snails and puppy-dog tails,That’s what boys are made of.According to Sonia Kaspbrak, at least.When he was a kid, Eddie had taken it literally. He ran his fingers across his arm, searching for tell-tale bumps, feeling sicker by the second. He turned his wrist, saw the blue-green veins through his pale skin, and ran to the sink to vomit up breakfast.When he grew up a little, he realised it was just a saying.When he met Richie Tozier, he decided it was entirely accurate.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 18
Kudos: 197





	1. Chapter 1

_Slugs_ _and snails and puppy-dog tails,_

_That’s what boys are made of_.

According to Sonia Kaspbrak, at least.

When he was a kid, Eddie had taken it literally. He ran his fingers across his arm, searching for tell-tale bumps, feeling sicker by the second. He turned his wrist, saw the blue-green veins through his pale skin, and ran to the sink to vomit up breakfast.

When he grew up a little, he realised it was just a saying.

When he met Richie Tozier, he decided it was entirely accurate.

Richie Tozier, who would eat hot dogs off the ground; scrape his knee and then lick it clean; reach into an opaque swamp just to rescue Eddie’s flyaway hat – well, he’d probably been infested with every creepy-crawly known to man by this point.

“You are _disgusting_ ,” he tells Richie for perhaps the hundredth time that week.

Richie takes a step closer to Eddie, which means that the worm curled around the stick he’s holding is also a step closer.

Eddie takes a step back.

“Did you know Spaghetti means worms in Italian? Maybe you should show a little more respect to your namesake.”

“For the last time,” Eddie fumes, “my name is not Eddie Spaghetti.”

“My mistake,” Richie says, waving the stick as he gestures. “I forgot you changed it to Tozier. You know, when me and your mum got hitched.”

“I hope you’re not planning on moving in. My mum doesn’t let animals in the house.”

Richie’s mouth quirks. “Mouthy. Maybe you need some more discipline.” He drops the stick.

“Beep beep Richie,” says Eddie. “We are not doing this. There’s mud _everywhere_.”

“Mud baths are good for you,” Richie says as he charges at Eddie, but they manage to land on a grassy patch anyway.

And then, Richie’s hands are on him, and Eddie can’t help the fact that he’s laughing. People laugh when they’re tickled. It’s a biological reflex. It doesn’t mean they’re having fun.

“Aw, look at us. We’re bonding.” Richie smiles. “I can’t wait to tell your mum.”

“Shut-up” Eddie says between involuntary laughs. “You would be the creepiest step-dad ever.”

“Edward Tozier,” Richie says, “how could you?”

His mind stutters over _Edward Tozier_ for a moment, and he stops laughing.

Richie’s hands still.

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie remembers that’s what he’s supposed to say. It’s what he’s supposed to say to all of Richie’s nicknames. “I need to get home. Or my mum’s going to have a conniption.”

Richie gets up and lends Eddie a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure she’s relaxed.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose at Richie. “Like I said. The creepiest.”

Richie grins at him.

Eddie takes a shower as soon as he gets home. He’s covered in dirt, and his hand felt tingly when Richie grabbed it, which probably means he’s contracted something. He wouldn’t put it past Richie to get Athlete’s foot on his hands.

By the end of the day, his hand is scrubbed raw.


	2. Chapter 2

“You might be the most repulsive person I know,” Eddie says, as Richie ravages his slice of pizza.

Richie leans back so that he’s laying on the couch, head in Eddie’s lap.

“Eds, baby,” Richie says, fluttering his eyelashes, “does that mean the wedding’s off?”

The words _Edward Tozier_ pop into his head again.

“It was off as soon as I slept with your sister.”

“Oof.” Richie pinches Eddie’s cheek. “The fairest maidens are always the fickle-est.”

“That’s not a word, Einstein. And you don’t know shit about maidens.”

“True,” Richie says, sitting up to grab another slice of pizza. “My mere presence pops any cherry in a 3-mile radius.”

“That’s lucky. Since there’s no way your dick could manage it.”

“Eddie wins,” Beverly says from the armchair next to them. “Now can you guys shut up so we can watch the movie?”

Richie pouts. “But my self-confidence is shattered. Eddie’s ruined me for other women.”

“Good,” says Beverly, throwing a pillow at him. “Now shush.”

Richie does shush, but only because he falls asleep ten minutes into the movie. His head tumbles into the crook of Eddie’s shoulder, and Richie’s stupid greasy lips are definitely making contact with his polo collar.

Bev looks over at him and smiles. Eddie doesn't know why. Grease stains are not a laughing matter, nor a smiling one.

As soon as he gets home, he takes his polo off and gets the detergent down, ready to dissolve the stain before washing.

He can see exactly where to put it. The fabric’s a little greyer where the corner of Richie’s mouth had nudged against his shoulder all night.

Should be a 2-minute job.

He puts away the detergent, picks up his shirt and heads to bed.

_I’ll do it tomorrow_ , he thinks, and almost convinces himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Loser-aged version of Adrian makes an appearance but don't worry, he's not gonna die.

“You’re so gross.” Eddie says, sick of watching Richie make kissy faces at Ben and Beverly.

“Me?” Richie asks, indignant. “Ben’s the one who’s about to write his own Beverly-centred epic.”

They’re studying the Iliad. Eddie thinks it’s bonkers, starting a war because a pretty girl ran off with someone. And people think _he’s_ high-strung.

But when Eddie had complained, Richie just said, “She’s the most beautiful woman in the world, Eds. She probably has huge-”

And then Eddie had shoved him. He really didn’t want to think about huge anythings. He was pretty sure he was a late bloomer. He didn’t have a crush on anyone. No one made him flustered, or nervous.

Well, Richie made him nervous. But that was only because he was constantly threatening Eddie with mud pies.

Eddie’s distracted from his train of thought when Adrian, sitting in the 3rd row, puts his hand up to make a comment. Which is when Bowers pipes up, just loud enough that the teacher can hear, but quiet enough that she can pretend not to.

There’s a murmur of laughter.

Eddie doesn’t laugh. He’s been on the receiving end far too much. It’s not fair, because he’s not like Adrian, but then it’s not really fair for Adrian either.

Richie doesn’t laugh either. Eddie wasn’t expecting him to, exactly, but it’s somehow a relief just the same.

“What do you think of Adrian?” Eddie asks Richie, a few days later.

Richie laughs like it’s an odd question to ask out-of-the-blue at midday on a Thursday. It probably is. But it’s not out-of-the-blue for Eddie. It’s been swimming around in his head and branching off for days.

Richie stops laughing, eventually. “Fine, I’ll give you the sex talk your mother undoubtedly skipped. See, when a man loves Liberace very much-”

“Shut up. I _know_ -I just meant-what do you think of people like Adrian?”

Richie’s smile drops, and his eyes go round for a second, like it’s an impossible question. Eddie has a split second of _please don’t be another Bowers please please please_ panic.

But then his expression springs back to _Richie_ , and he says, “Uh. More pussy for me?”

Eddie blinks. “But. There are girls like Adrian too.”

“Shit,” says Richie, laughing, “you’re right, they’re diminishing supply. Gonna have to rethink my whole fucking policy now. What, thank the queens, ban the dykes? Sound fair, Eddie-bear?"

And Eddie starts laughing too, because Richie is a fucking idiot, and somehow he always makes things better.


	4. Chapter 4

“ _Disgusting_.” Eddie’s mother tuts at the TV. “That sort of thing spreads to innocents as well, you know. They’re putting the whole community at risk. Just to satisfy their urges.”

Eddie is staring at the patient onscreen. The two of them could be twins. How does his mother not notice?

There’s someone next to the hospital bed, holding his hand.

_It looks nice_ , Eddie thinks, just as the reporter says _he may only have a week left_ and Eddie feels guilty, instantly, but he didn’t know. How could he know? It’s not him, just a man who’s stolen his face.

_But only for one more week,_ he thinks, and wants to cry.

Eddie comes down with something the next day, so he stays at home. He knows that if it lasts he’ll have to see the doctor, and he can feel the dread corkscrewing in his gut at the thought.

Richie shows up, delivering homework as an excuse.

“You don’t have to stay,” Eddie says as he piles into bed next to him. “You really shouldn’t, actually. I’m very contagious.”

“Don’t kick me out,” Richie says, “I _have_ to tell you what Bill got up to in Biology.”

It turns out Bill did not get up to much in Biology, but Eddie has the strange thought that he could listen to Richie talk about nothing for hours. His cold and the warmth of his bed are making him sleepy, though, and it’s not long before he feels himself drifting off.

_He sees Richie, asleep in a hospital bed. It’s seems so important that he wakes up._

_He traces his fingers across Richie’s cheeks, but when he pulls back, there are red rivulets in their place. He tries to stop the bleeding, cups his hands around Richie’s face like they’re makeshift bandages. But it’s like he’s coated in acid, his fingers plunging into flesh._

_He hears bones crack, but he can’t move anymore, can only call for help, for someone to take him away. And someone tries. But they’re too gentle. Can’t shift him. Can only-_

“Eds. Jesus, Eddie, wake up.”

“Get off. Get away from me.” He’s disoriented, still half-asleep, but he knows this is important.

“It’s me,” Richie says, not moving his hand off Eddie’s cheek. “It’s just me.”

“ _Don’t fucking touch me.”_

Richie’s hand drops.

He looks scared, of all things. Richie’s never scared of him. He makes a point of how _cute_ he is. His height, his clothes, his soft skin, his doe eyes. Eddie always tells him to shut the fuck up.

_Say it, Richie. I won’t say anything._

But all Richie says is, “What do you need?” Voice rough, eyes wet with an onyx-shine, and Eddie feels so, so guilty.

_I need you to shove me, or hug me, or kiss me. Remind me to breathe._

“Inhaler,” Eddie says instead, lungs feeling like they’re full of putty.

Richie goes to his drawer, shuffles around and hands it to Eddie.

He takes it, making sure his fingers don’t graze Richie’s in the process.

He takes two short puffs.

He knows. He knows what he is. Could push down the occasional thought before, but now-

_That sort of thing spreads to innocents as well._

“You should go.”

_Please stay._

Richie blinks, his long dark lashes flooding every time. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to protest, then abruptly turns and leaves.

Eddie smears a hand under his eyes and pulls the covers up over his head.

And tries to block out every little inch of the outside world.


	5. Chapter 5

The cold passes. Eddie’s a little surprised, but it doesn’t really change anything in the long-term.

For his first lunch back at school, he starts heading toward the Losers on muscle memory alone. He stops himself, slips into an empty classroom and sits up on the table instead.

_Maths can be fun_ , one of the posters on the wall cheerily announces.

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so bleak.

He spends the next couple of lunches the same way. Reads. Studies. Watches sap make its way down the oak outside, inch by inch, dripping over ants in his path. Amber freezes them in time. Neutralises them too. Stops them from spreading disease and decay.

Eddie can live like that. There are worse places to be than a sunset cage.

But Richie’s not like him. Richie doesn’t stay still long enough to get trapped in anything.

He spots Eddie in the corridor on Thursday, and comes running.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t leave the Losers because of me.”

Eddie reflexively takes a step back, but there’s nowhere to go with the wall behind him.

“I won’t touch you anymore,” Richie says, sounding fragile, and embarrassed. “Just come back.”

Eddie blinks. “It’s not just you. I-I could make everyone sick.”

Richie stares at him. “Your cold’s over. Did your mother convince you that you have another fucking illness, because-”

And Eddie can hear, in his tone, that he’s not going to give up on this easily. And who cares what’s said now, really, since he’s already given up on having friends. What’s the point in tip-toeing?

His mind scrolls through the right words, but every one of them has its matching graffiti scrawled next to it, and, in the end, all he says is, “I’m-like Adrian.”

And the thing is, he’s _not_ , because Adrian would just say the fucking word, but he’s pretty sure Richie’s not going to argue specifics with him right now.

He’s watching the red sneakers on the floor in front of him, stained half-brown because Richie never fucking stops moving. Waiting for them to step back, so he can slip away into a classroom and lock the door.

They don’t fucking move.

“Ok.” Richie’s voice, somehow sounding both soft and strained. “Come back to the group.”

Eddie does look at him, then. He has to. His face is stitched together with so many feelings that Eddie can’t read it. The only ones he really practiced picking were anger and grief, and he can’t see the thread of either.

He tries to focus on unspooling his own thoughts, but they come out in a jumbled mess of: “Aren’t you even a little worried you might catch something? And if you make a joke about my mother, I swear-”

“We’ve been friends forever. If I could catch the gay, pretty sure it would’ve spread already.” _Because of course Richie can just fucking say the word._

“Shut up,” says Eddie, cheeks burning. “That’s not what I meant. I know that’s not how it works.”

“Yeah?” Richie asks thoughtfully. “How do you think it works?”

Eddie opens his mouth and closes it again. He doesn’t know, exactly. He knows he’s been sick since the day he was born. He knows the only men he’s seen holding hands were in a hospital. He knows his mother worries about him, because _innocents get infected_ , and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her he’s one of the guilty.

“Because,” Richie continues, “unless there’s been a pretty big U-turn in our Eddie Spaghetti’s sex life-”

Eddie feels his cheeks get even hotter. “Shut up.”

“-or your hobbies have diverted from comic-collecting to needle-sharing-”

“Fuck off.”

“-I’d say you’re fine.”

“Fuck _off_ , Trashmouth,” Eddie repeats, instinctively, then pauses. “Really?”

“Only one way to find out,” Richie says, and attempts to plant a sloppy kiss on Eddie’s cheek.

“Gross. Gedoff.” Eddie shoves at him, feeling happiness bubble up in him like soap suds.

“Huh,” Richie says, putting two fingers against his pulse. “Still alive.”

Eddie smiles. He can’t help it. He’s ok. Richie’s ok. Richie _likes_ him. Despite everything.

Then he realises he’s been smiling up at Richie for a little too long.

“How do you know so much about this stuff anyway?”

“You know me,” Richie says. “I’m an intellectual. A man of the world.”

Eddie gives the requisite scoff, but it’s a little bit true. Richie always has some interesting fact to tell him, and all Eddie can counter with is the statistics of how many tuberculosis victims there were in the 18th century.

“Anyway,” Richie says. “Love to stay and chat, but I have to deliver a crate of spaghetti to some losers.” He reaches his arms out, and Eddie can tell exactly what he’s planning.

“You can fucking try,” Eddie says, and shoves past him, running.

It takes about two minutes for Richie to get him in a fireman’s carry and deliver him to the Losers’ table.

“Couldn’t find Eddie,” Richie says. “But I found this new guy, Eggbert Macaroni. He seems a lot cooler.”

Eddie kicks him in the ribs.

“Same violent tendencies though.” Richie puts him down.

Beverly gives him a long hug.

“Thank God,” Stan says. “Richie was about to go into mourning over you.”

“If you th-think he wore a lot of angsty b-band tees _before_ …” Bill pipes up.

“So much has changed since you left,” Richie says. “Stan’s voice broke. Bill only stutters on every second word. We’re all very proud.”

Eddie holds a hand to his chest. “They grow up so fast. Apart from Richie, obviously.”

Richie sticks out his tongue. “Tell that to your mother.”

“Sick,” says Eddie, wrinkling his nose, feeling healthier than he has in a long time.


	6. Chapter 6

Not much changes.

Richie gives him pamphlets and things sometimes, and, while there’s something a little soul-destroying about getting sex ed from your crush, it is, admittedly, helpful.

Richie’s also started asking him questions about his love life, whenever they’re alone.

Not in those words.

It’s “Have you found yourself a beau, old chap?” or “How big is the harem, now?” or “Any boytoys in the picture?”

Once, it’s: ”Fuck, marry, kill: Me, Ben, Bill, Stan, Mike.”

_Fuck Richie, marry Richie_. _And definitely kill Richie._

“Bev,” he responds. “I’m gay, not totally devoid of taste.”

“That’s rude,” says Richie, “I’d pick you.”

_For which?_?? Eddie’s brain demands, but Richie’s already moved on, leaving his head whirling for the rest of the day.

It’s a good reason not to be alone with him.

It’s not the main reason.

But when Richie shows up at his door with big bug eyes and a smile, it’s hard to remember what the main reason is.

_Right_ , Eddie thinks, as Richie shuffles along the cold metal bench, coming close enough that their goosebumped thighs brush. _That was the reason_.

Richie hands over a slice of bread. His hands are a lot bigger than Eddie’s, but they have the same wrists; thin-skinned, turquoise veins peeking through.

_Slugs and snails and puppy-dog tails_ , Eddie reminds himself, and rips off a piece of bread to throw to the ducks on the pond.

“Rude,” says Richie. “You’re not going to offer any to the human guests first?”

Eddie rips off another piece and lands it straight in Richie’s mouth.

He’s about to throw another piece to the ducks when he realises he’s not going to have to throw very far.

“Um. Does it look like they’re coming closer?”

“They definitely are. You’re their mama now.”

In another few seconds, the bench is surrounded.

“Why me?” Eddie stands on the bench. “ _You’re_ the one holding the rest of the loaf.”

“Sh. Don’t tell them that,” Richie says, standing up and facing Eddie.

A duck quacks loudly behind them and Eddie yelps, almost falling off the bench before Richie grabs his shoulder.

“Steady, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie glares at him. “How exactly do you plan on getting down, genius?”

Richie just grins at him. “Fear not, fair damsel,” he says, taking half the loaf and throwing it a fair distance.

All the ducks dutifully follow it.

And then it’s just Eddie and Richie, standing on the bench a few inches apart.

They should probably sit down, but Richie’s not moving.

_Why isn’t Richie moving? Not even taking a step back, to put a little more distance between them._

_To be fair,_ Eddie thinks. _He’s not moving either._

Eddie folds his arms. “Thanks. For the help.”

Richie coughs and puts on an old man voice. “Eddie Kaspbrak. Bravest man I ever knew. His only fear? Ducks.”

“Shut up,” says Eddie. “We can’t all be John Wayne.”

Richie cocks his head to the side and smiles. Eddie flushes. He insults Richie a lot, but 10% of them turn into compliments halfway through. It’s a real problem.

“I’m serious,” Richie says, “you’re braver than anyone.”

“Bullshit. You’re braver than me.” _Everyone’s braver than him_.

“No,” says Richie. “I’m just reckless. The minute I start thinking things through, I’m fucked. Paralysed.”

Eddie stares. _Did Richie just glance at his lips? What the fuck?_

“Makes it hard to reach for anything that, um. That I really want.”

_He definitely looked at Eddie’s lips. Or Eddie’s developing some kind of hallucinatory response brought on by stress. Is he- does he want Eddie to make a move? Good fucking luck with that._

“We-ell,” Eddie says, feeling his voice go a little shaky, “maybe it’s ok to be a bit reckless. Maybe you have, uh, good instincts.”

_He’s definitely imagining things, right? The only reason this conversation feels like this, is because he’s filtering it through his brain, which is full of all kinds of in-love-with-Richie chemicals, and therefore completely incapable of rational thought. So he really needs to stop looking at the stray curl over the shell of Richie’s ear and what it would feel like to kiss him there._

_Slugs and snails and puppy-dog tails,_ he reminds himself. _Richie, picking up cicada shells and attaching them to Eddie. Richie, setting up a snail race and taking bets. Richie, not taking his eyes off Eddie._

_God. The whole world fits in those eyes._

Eddie blinks. _Are they getting even bigger? Or-_

And then, their noses are brushing against each other, and Eddie barely has time to take a breath before their lips follow.

It’s cotton-soft and sweet, as soon as Eddie remembers to breathe.

Richie pulls back, fingers resting on his face. “Is this o-”

Eddie tries to be soft and sweet, he really does, except he’s pretty sure he ends up scratching Richie’s neck in his attempt to get his lips back where they should be.

But Richie just makes this noise, and Eddie is pretty sure he doesn’t mind.

They stay there until dark, when Richie walks him home, their knuckles grazing with every step.

_Here’s where they would kiss_ , Eddie thinks, once they’re at his door. _If they weren’t in Derry. If his mother weren’t peering through the window._

Instead, Richie pulls him into a hug, and whispers in his ear.

“First date, we’re watching DuckTales. Exposure therapy.”

Eddie pulls back and looks at him. “You know, I think you might be the bane of my existence.”

“It’s a little early for pet names, Spaghetti,” Richie says, giving him a wink as he leaves.

They _do_ watch DuckTales, curled up on Richie’s couch, because Richie is most definitely the bane of Eddie’s existence, but Eddie gets to lay his head on Richie’s shoulder, curls tickling his neck, so it’s not entirely terrible.

“ _This_ ,” Richie says, when an episode ends, “was one of the highlights of childhood.”

“Huh. I wasn’t allowed to watch a lot of TV. In case it ruined my eyesight.”

Richie slides his glasses up his nose. “Did you tell your mum that glasses look really hot?”

Eddie makes a face that Richie ignores. _Or is too blind to see._

“What _did_ you do? I mean you couldn’t watch TV. You could barely go outside.”

“I read.” Eddie says. “Or was read to. Do you know that one nursery rhyme, ‘Slugs and snails-‘”

“’-and puppy-dog tails?’ Yeah, the girls at our primary school would squeal it whenever a boy walked past.”

“My mum would sing it. All the time.”

Richie makes a face whenever he’s deep in thought, one that looks like he’s midway to an aneurysm. That face has rapidly appeared, and Eddie dreads whatever he’s coming up with.

“Sauce and spaghetti and everything pretty,” Richie says eventually. “That’s what Eddies are made of.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Get out of here with that slant rhyme bullshit.”

Richie gives him a look. “Sauce and spaghetti and everything _petty_. That’s what Eddies are made of.”

“Honestly? Better.”

“Really?” asks Richie, turning his head to plant a kiss on Eddie’s forehead. “That one wags your puppy-dog tail?”

“Gross,” says Eddie, going pink all the way down to his neck.


	7. Chapter 7

_Gross_ , thinks Eddie, sitting at his dorm’s desk, trashing yet another attempt at a note to Richie.

He just wants Richie to know that he loves him; and he’d probably do anything for him, even if it was unbearably stupid, which, knowing Richie, it probably would be; and he wants to spend the rest of their lives together, and buy ice creams together at the diner for all eternity.

But nothing soppy.

Eddie startles at the knock at his door, and quickly shoves the notes under a schoolbook.

He lets Richie in. His eyes are red-rimmed. Eddie thinks, given the hour, that it’s probably to do with his parents, but he’s learnt not to press.

They sit on Eddie’s bed, Richie leaning against him, and Eddie wants to Just Say It.

He can’t decide whether saying it while Richie is feeling like this is an excellent idea or a terrible one, but he thinks that if he doesn’t say it now, it’s going to slip out at some horrible, inopportune time.

“I love you,” he says, voice almost giving up halfway through.

Richie looks at him, and, for the moment, it’s like all his worries have rocketed off him.

“Love you more,” he says, because of course he does.

“It’s not a competition,” Eddie says, but the fact that Richie now has his arms pinned is really calling that into question. Eddie doesn’t mind. He’s learnt that he gets a prize whether he wins or loses.

_Sugar and spice and everything nice,_ Eddie thinks, smelling cloves in Richie’s cologne and tasting butterscotch in his smiling kisses. _That’s what boys are made of._


End file.
